Making out with a Fifty-year-old

There comes a time in every young man's life when he has the urge to make out with a woman who is near or around the same age as his mother. For me, that time has been for the past six months now. And, a couple of nights ago, I got lucky.

It was Friday night, November 9th. This, of course was four days before November 13, which means it was Friday the 13th minus four days, which has absolutely no significance whatsoever.

It had been a long week and I was looking to party. I called up a few friends. They answered their phones. We picked up a few BL's (Bud Lights). The party was on.

After a few hours of "pre-game", we headed out to a bar. To our disappointment, the local 'townie' bar ("The Paddock") - your basic dive - was closed for unknown reasons. So we hit up a bar I had never been to before, a place called "The British Beer Company" in Norwood, MA. This place was hopping.

On stage there was some cover-band playing the usual drunk-bar fare: songs like Journey's "Don't Stop Believing", Guns 'N Roses' "Sweet Child O' Mine" and Def Leopard's "Pour Some Sugar on Me". I took a sip of my Rum N' Coke, threw off my coat and, baby, it was on!

Those of you who've seen me dance can attest to the fact that my dance moves are top-notch and that I'm the best dancer ever and that I'm amazing (see any of the videos on my Myspace page). Well, Friday night was no exception. I was absolutely sensational. And the girls loved me. During the course of the night I must have had my ass slapped at least two and a half times (the half being more like a pinch, if you want to be technical). That's right, folks: all attention was on Matt Burns, which is how it always should be.

By the end of the night, I could have easily gotten any girl in the place (unfortunately all but three girls were with guys...and all but one of those three girls were lesbians...and that one remaining girl was incredibly ugly). But I didn't want ANY girl. I came for a COUGAR.

Yes, a COUGAR. For those of you who are part-retarded and/or have been living in a colony on Mars for the past ten years and/or ate some Idiot-O's for breakfast this morning, a cougar is any woman between the ages of thirty-five and fifty who is still good-looking enough to make a man want to rock her world. Usually these women are a little weathered - few freckles on their chest, some cottage cheese in various places, sporadic peach-fuzz on the upper lip, couple varicose veins...but these so-called "imperfections" only add to their attractiveness. In fact, it's the weathered aspect to these women that make them so damn hot.

I scoped out the dance floor, and - lo and behold - there they were: a pair of dictionary-definition cougars only a few feet away from me. A brunette and a blonde. Very pretty women for their age.

Their heads turned. We locked eyes. Was it fate that brought me to this bar tonight? I think it may have been...

"Are you the drummer?" the brunette asked me.

They were mistaking me for the drummer in the cover band.

"Yeah, I'm the drummer," I told them, which really wasn't a lie since I do drum.

"Hee. Hee-Hee. We came here looking to take home the drummer. Hee. Hee. Hee. Hee-hee."

"Well, here I am. How old are you guyz?"

"Fifty-two."

"Nooooooo...there's no way you're fifty-two. You look so good."

"Thank you. That's nice to hear."

But I was sick of beating around the bush.

"So, are you guyz single, or..?"

The question made the blonde somewhat uncomfortable.

"I...uh...lost my husband."

"I'm really sorry to hear that," I told her. And I was. But, hell, life goes on. You gotta move forward. You gotta make out with me.

"You guys look really really good, though."

I proceeded to pinch the blonde's cheek and give it a big kiss, hoping like hell that she would let me. And she did! She accepted the embrace with a shy smile and even took a brief glance to my pants. Fortunately, my flag was still only at half-mast (in tribute to her dead husband).

I then turned to the brunette:

"You too...you're so adorable."

And with the brunette's cheek I did the same. But she didn't want the kiss on her cheek. She wanted it on...HER LIPS!

"It's finally happening!" I exclaimed to myself as our faces became one with each other.

We locked lips and then - by complete surprise - she slipped me...THE TONGUE! Needless to say, my flag was no longer at half-mast.

"Yes! This is great!"

Her mouth tasted like Basic Ultra Lights, but at that point in the night I was about thirty beers deep: even if I was kissing a dumpster it would have still tasted like strawberry shortcake.

I rolled my tongue around the brunette's tongue for a few seconds. Then I gave her bottom lip a suck. Then she pulled away...

"Wow, that was nice," I told her. And it was. REALLY nice. It was like every desire I've had for a teacher of mine, or a friend of my mother's, or a neighbor, or a nun, or a woman named Barbara who works as a cashier at the express lane in Walmart...was channeled into that one kiss.

I smiled at the brunette and turned to the blonde on the right:

"You want one?"

The blonde looked scared. This was the widow, remember. She probably felt guilty - like she was cheating on her dead husband. She wasn't ready to move on. I understood. I didn't press her.

So I turned back to the brunette. I wanted more from her. A longer session, at least, and maybe some second base. But it wasn't happening. The blonde widow grabbed her friend by the arm and started leading her to the bathroom.

"Come on, hun. We gotta go."

"Oh, don't leave. Come back! Come back!!!" I yelled.

But they didn't come back. And, before I knew it, they were out of there.

No big deal, though. At least I got some tongue, which means I officially "hooked up" with her. That was all I was really looking for. I also got a slight case of Basic Ultra-light breath, but that's all part of the experience. Also, as I write this I'm very sick, so I think I caught some sort of virus from her as well.

Bottom line, though: I made out with a friggin' cougar! An old one! As old as you can really get without things getting too weird. I don't know why it's so hot, but it is. Perhaps it's just curiosity. Perhaps it's just a part of the Oedipal complex. Perhaps it's just gross. But it gives you a really cool feeling.